


Kiss Me Windy

by sleepinnude



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepinnude/pseuds/sleepinnude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darren and Chord and a joint and a car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss Me Windy

**Author's Note:**

> endless thanks to Gigi, without whom this story would not be possible.

Their breath shudders and clouds, cold trapped between windshields and leather seats, between chapped hands and hoodies too thin. Darren’s fingers are too numb to make the lighter catch. Chord tells him that’s what he gets for using a crappy, plastic, gas station lighter. Darren tells Chord and his bourgeois Zippo to go fuck themselves with a smile at the side of his mouth.

The flame jumps to sudden life — Fuckin’ finally, Chord mutters through a smirk — bright in the brittle cold. He lights silver-fast and inhales, eyes crossed to watch the flare of the lit end. Holding carefully, he passes the joint over. Chord’s fingers bump and nudge at Darren’s at the transfer and Darren releases with a hissing sigh. Smoke hits the windshield and spreads and Darren has the brief urge to sing Toxic Love. Instead he waxes hydroponic about Tim Curry for a moment and Chord just smiles into his hit, free hand reaching out to fit beneath Darren’s curls.

He relaxes at the touch, rubbing back against it and whimpering when Chord fits a thumb into the nape of his neck, pressing. Chord urges him forward, sitting up himself, and hovers a breath away from Darren’s face. Chord says his name and it’s too long. It’s because Chord’s high and the inside of the car has gone warm so he’s drowsy and Darren knows he had just been South to visit family so his tongue is accent-thick and Darren sort of loves that. Darren’s eyes open, watches Chord bring the joint up, and inhale. He presses forward instinctive and seals their lips together. Treading smoke. Darren holds as long as he possibly can, body gone heady, not willing to break the kiss for anything. When he finally releases it’s a head trip and he’s astronomical.

Chord lingers close and grinning, smokescreen playing with the blue in his eyes. After a moment of watching the filter, Darren fits their hands together only to steal the joint. Arcing it up, he takes it in and hooks his arm behind Chord’s neck to pull him in again.

Smoke mingles, filling around tongues and between teeth. Darren’s entire body is pulsing in waves for Chord. And then Chord is pulling back, lining teeth up around lips and nipping, sharp and with just enough pressure for the sensation to bite through the cotton padding Darren’s mind. He yelps and jerks and nearly fumbles the joint. Chord, because he is an asshole, laughs. He falls back into his seat, loose smirk slung over his face. Wearing his erection proud, Chord rescues the joint from Darren’s slack fingers and takes a hit, holding it short to tilt his head back and release a perfect series of perfect smoke rings into the haze of the smoked-out atmosphere.

Darren manages to shake himself from the spell in the curve of Chord’s tongue and pitches up. He licks at the air, breaking one of the circles with a wicked flick of his own tongue. Chord watches, dazed eyes entrance at half-mast and his head is dizzy with the thought of Darren’s tongue tracing his skin like it is the air. The weed is fucking strong and the thought alone is enough to will the sensation to half-reality. He can feel the wet weight moving over him and it pulls a moan from his taxing lungs.

Darren looks up at the noise, tongue still loose and out and obscene and he arches a brow filthily. He says something about not wanting the smoke rings to die virgins. Chord swears low and rasps out something about not playing fair, D, before he’s lunging.

The joint is forgotten between two guitar-torn fingers as he pushes their hips together and drawls a swear against Darren’s hard palette. He curls his free hand into dark curls and Darren whimpers at it, hips canting.

Chord is straddling Darren, hot and hard and insistent, long arms folded over and around his shoulders and back like he owns him. His hands are in Darren’s hair, numbering his spine, bruising into his hips, finding purchase on his ass. He licks into Darren’s smokehouse mouth, licking the smile from it.

If there’s one thing Chord is, it’s a musician and he plays Darren like a familiar instrument, stringing him tight to pull a different pitch, a different sound from him, working through nips and thrusts and sucks and drags. He pieces together a symphony on Darren’s broken sounds that shatter in the body-heat, sweet sweat-heavy air. What’s worse is Chord knows it, knows exactly what he’s doing and he arches away to laugh.

Rattled and desperate, Darren plays the asshole right back, rolls his hips up, dirty and slow and long. Chord chokes and gasps and everything is kaleidoscopically intense, intense like blood pounding over his skull and at the back of his eyes and somehow he just manages to grasp on reality to realize Darren stealing the joint from his fingers and taking a shaky hit off it.

Darren’s head has gone thick with thoughts over and again of nothing more than want. He knows he wants it, wants Chord and badly. And he’s more than a little gone. But Darren is fucked up and he needs Chord to want it more. So he pushes the joint between Chord’s parted lips and holds it there for him, lost in the graze of Chord’s mouth over his rough fingers, as he inhales. And then yanking the joint away, twisting a hand into the back of Chord’s hair and seizing his mouth.

Chord chokes on it, chokes on the hit and Darren’s tongue and the force and the want. He whines and it’s broken and wasn’t he the one playing with Darren just a second ago? Who flipped this table over and when? He’s coughing out on groans, elegant form of smoke rings earlier giving way to amorphous wisps.

The groan ends on a whine and a pitch forward, forehead sweating and sticking to the seat, just to the side of Darren’s head. Everything slams together then in a dizzy-making headrush and he’s shaking, coughing again. Darren spans a hand over his back, up the notches of his spine, smiling and bastardizing a Breakfast Club quote with “You know some blondes just can’t hold they smoke!” Chord laughs at that which chokes him more. His cheeks are blushed all blotchily and he swears in half-a-voice and they catch eyes and then they’re kissing. They kiss and whine and surge and Chord still just barely has air which feeds desperation into him – fingers grasping at hair and over threadbare tee shirts as thighs tense together.

It’s fast and messy, of course it is, but it feels half-speed, feels down-beated. Depth is gone and with it all perception. They don’t know how tightly their hands clench, how tightly they press into each other, how tightly their jaws clench and muscles tense. (But they’ll realize tomorrow when they wake, likely flopped over each other, when bruises appear and entire limbs bear soreness like gingerale fizzing to life under skin.) They can’t remember their own names but for when the other says it and it’s unsure where their bones have gone. They don’t know any of that; just that they’re there. There, with each other and breathing each other in like carbon dioxide because it’s never satisfaction.

Things move like fly-vision, like flies caught in flickering amber.

Chord ducks his head at odd angles to suck over Darren’s neck and then he’s suddenly aware that he’s been fucking down into Darren’s hips harshly, so harshly bruises are without doubt and if there is a doubt for there, well, there definitely isn’t one for Darren’s shoulders, from the curl of Chord’s fingers into flesh and muscle and cuff of bones.

Words spill past lips, declarations of curses and something just past the point of affection with the tanging-pleasant aftertaste of more.

Somewhere the joint is burning down to wisps of ash and smoke and Darren’s head is spinning and spiraling and Chord’s entire body is on-offing through a strobe light.


End file.
